The Weight of Happiness
by notnow
Summary: It was enough to know that his fourteen year old hands wielded the weight of the new era. He'll suppress much of his conscience until the peaceful age arrived. [Revenge Arc Flashback]


_Disclaimer: We all should know RK belongs to Watsuki._

**The Weight of Happiness **by notnow

Ch 1. The Crossing of Fates

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_Afterwards, any cup of sake will only taste of blood._

He could almost see the fine hairs on their bodies rise. He nearly smelled the three men's perspiration threatening to drip. The frequently rehearsed introduction left Himura Kenshin's throat and stirred the tense Kyoto air. "I have no personal grudge against you…but you must die for the new era."

And as expected, the already dead men echoed back, "Who are you?"

To which the chilled voice replied with the usual facts, "Choshu Ishin Shishi…Himura Battosai." It was the most he could do for them; offer dead men the name of their red-haired assassin. The larger of the two bodyguards lunged at him first, overly zealous for a man knocking on death's door. It was certainly a shame. He would have offered this brute man a chance to leave and live; his target was only one person---the one in the middle, not an innocent civilian dutifully attending to his job. He could have been a meat cleaver or an inn keeper, but destiny assigned him this---to die in the process of heavenly justice. Kenshin's sword swiftly unsheathed and sliced through the large man's scull. The other man, his real target, only had time to blink before he suffered the same fate under the ruthless blade.

Kenshin could hear the shrill cry of the second bodyguard now, calling out the two dead men's names. In automation, Kenshin's indigo eyes scanned over the retreating opposition for signs of a drawn sword. When those cold irises settled on the moonlit steel, he leapt at the panicking figure and attacked with his own metal. Noticing his blood drenched blade had crossed with a clean, silver one, Kenshin allowed time to assert, "Give up." If possible he wouldn't kill needlessly. This night's duty could end with two deaths instead of three.

A stubborn "No" resounded and he was firmly pushed off. The assassin narrowed his eyes at the stubborn bodyguard, who was too foolish to realize there's no one left to guard with his life. This one roughly four years Kenshin's senior, huffed with inexperience and a bit of determination, sweat gleaming above the brows. "I will not die! I will not die!" his darks eyes seemed to declare. Their stances were all too clear; only a third death would mark the end of this messy night.

That new era dangled in front of him as he skillfully cut across the other's torso. It was then when he felt the sting of sharp edge against his left cheek. For that brief moment, an expression of shock escaped and flickered across his normally stoic face. And to think he'd always been so careful before! He fingered the thick, warm liquid trickling down his visage as the other man crawled by his feet, jagged, bloody nails clawing at the ground. The blade glinted coldly in moonlight, before plunging through the young's man's neck.

The usual routine quickly followed. The usual men appeared with the usual crisp, white paper in hand. They dropped it next to the grisly corpses, with the usual message, "tenchu," written in neat calligraphy, facing up.

It didn't matter, what the other person desperately fought for, what the other person desperately yearned to live for. It was enough to know that his fourteen year old hands wielded the weight of the new era. He'll suppress much of his conscience until the peaceful age arrived. "Please achieve happiness in your next life," the cold and collected manslayer said, before turning away from the carcass strewn street.

After that night, he took up sake drinking, but for the next half of the year, it never tasted good. And by the sixth month, it began to reek of blood.

_That night she stepped into his crimson splattered world._

Something was very amiss that night or his senses were mangled. Regardless, it was wrong. All of it. He could smell white plum again, blossoming out of season. Blood sprayed out as the enemy's hacked body dropped to the ground. Kenshin jolted his head upwards to the even rhythm of wooden sandals clapping against hard ground. He stood paralyzed even as they stopped a few paces from him.

How strange it was, to mingle the stench of fresh slaughter with such a sensual fragrance.

It was her, the woman from the pub.

He remained rooted to his spot for a moment longer as his mind frantically reached for the next appropriate course of action to take. He deliberated over the facts. The first fact: he is an assassin. The second fact: an assassin works in the dark to keep his identity unknown. The third fact: she has just seen him kill. With his new decision made, his adolescent fingers resolutely gripped around the cold hilt of his sword.

"I came to thank you for earlier." The furrowing of his brows slackened at the break in her speech. "They say it rains blood at scenes of battle." On its own, his head slowly turned to face her. It was then, when sanity first ripped through him in the midst of all the madness. Madness came in the form of blood drenched Kyoto streets. Sanity came to him in the form of stark white sleeves, a deep purple shawl and severe onyx eyes. "You truly made the bloody rain fall," she said, her pale visage wearing the crimson traces from his most recent kill.

His tight grasp unfurled and the sword clattered to the ground. The racket seemed to echo out relentlessly as he stared at her, scrambling to make sense of her words. He didn't have much time though, as her intense eyes closed and her body suddenly staggered forward. By instinct, his own body moved to catch her in his arms.

That fragrance again, he thought and nearly laughed and nearly blushed. It certainly wasn't the time to notice such things. So, he thought, what should he do with this unconscious witness of his?

To the inn, his feet carried him back, arms bearing the mysterious woman's weight. He spent the remaining steps musing like a confused fifteen year old boy rather than a cold and collected manslayer.

That night he had thought she'd stepped into his crimson splattered world, but it was actually half a year ago when he had pulled her in.

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_AN: Feel free to point out any weaknesses—but keep in mind that this is just a writing exercise for me, a sort of practice as I've never attempted to do an RK fanfic before—so don't burn me too hard. Please?_


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